


See You In Class

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - College/University, Army Doctor John Watson, Fluffy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Not Underage, Teacher John Watson, Teacher-Student Relationship, University Student Sherlock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Just what it says on the label.John Watson has agreed to teach a section of advanced biology.  I'm fairly certain he is not expecting to find a rather challenging student in his class.





	1. Get Busy

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr prompt requesting Professor Watson and university student Sherlock.
> 
> *Sigh. Oh, all right, if you insist.

"Class is dismissed."   It was only the second night of class as John ended, a few minutes early, choosing to wrap up on a good note, in a good place.  He glanced down, thumbed through the exams that had been passed forward, turned in, and one caught his eye.  "Holmes?  A word, please."

John watched as the request barely raised an eyebrow, and a few students stopped to offer a comment or make small talk on their way past him.  The students are pleasant, friendly, and John felt glad he agreed to do this so far, and the room emptied as he tidied up.  His lecture notes were neat, gathered in a well-organized clip, and he powered off the laptop, closed out of the smart board, stowed the remote as he waited.

He'd been recruited by an old med school buddy, Mike Stamford, given a last-minute teaching vacancy for Advanced Biology, and in desperation and to prevent his mind from becoming too stagnant and mushy, he'd agreed.  The class was at the local university, advanced students, all either pre-med or bio majors, according to the cursory review John had done well before the class opened.  All very academically focused on a medical track.  Except one, the student he'd summoned - Holmes.

John recalled that this student's biographical form had been sparsely filled out, obviously very little time or attention given to it, and John couldn't have cared less about that.  He _did_ care, however, that the student had turned in a blank exam.

A tall student - pale-skinned, gangly, older than the traditional university student, however, with bright eyes and dark curls - cast something of a reluctant shadow over John's podium.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obviously," he said, snarky and rude.  John could feel his inner army officer - _retired officer,_ he reminded himself - bristle.

"That'll be enough of that," John said, knowing despite his attempt at casual, that his chest was out, that his authoritarian air was back in spades, courtesy of his officer's training.  Judging by the stubborn aura surrounding the student before him, he wasn't optimistic this would be a quickly resolved discussion.  He could just _tell._  "What's the meaning of your exam?"

"I turned it in."

"It's blank."

"I am only here as a requirement of some free-lance work I want to do.  I only have to be present.  I don't have to pass."

"Actually, according to university policy, you do.  It was in your condition of acceptance due to the advanced standing, the difficulty of this class.  A failing grade or a zero in any assignment or exam can be grounds for expulsion at faculty discretion."

"Faculty discretion.  You're faculty - so use your discretion and exempt me."

"It's in the syllabus, _my_ syllabus, that all work is required."

John watched the eyes of the student standing before him a little bit uncertain.  Clearly he had been expecting John to give in, to surrender, to simply dismiss him.  Despite teaching not being his first calling (more like his third, medicine and the army ranking above it), he did care about following standards.  "I can tough it out until you expel me, then.  Credit for attending a few classes might be enough."  The vocal tone had a hint of anger underneath.

"You know, I watched you last week, keep to yourself but engaged with the material.  I watched you tonight during break, manipulate the girl who sits next to you into loaning you her mobile.  I saw you through the window tonight, bum a cigarette before class on the way in.  You should quit smoking, by the way, and that's a free piece of advice."  Sherlock's brow raised, the side of his mouth reacting, the crookedness of the disapproving grin giving a glimpse of the humour appreciation under the exterior.  "I saw you reading the textbook, and really reading it.  But you were bored.  You think you have your shit together, don't need this class, feel somehow privileged, that you feel you should get special treatment.   _Think again_."

Sherlock's sigh clearly conveyed that he was also bored of John, ready to leave, and in fact was very close to doing just that.  John noticed that, too.

"You are not above the rules in my classroom."  John could well remember a few military confrontations where he'd pulled rank - protecting his staff, advocating for his patients, or simply asserting his authority.  It was similar, this student trying to push at John's limits, and he knew the Captain Watson voice was usually serious and intimidating.  "Have a seat, Holmes."

"No, I don't think I will."

John's grin faded, turned menacing and he leaned in, making up for what he didn't have in height with the arrogance and the threat and the promise that disobedience is not going to be tolerated.  " _Sit_."  Despite the fact that he had absolutely no intention toward fisticuffs - he was a bloody professor and of course even he had his boundaries - he let his hand closest to Sherlock very subtly clench, fingers flexing into a fist and relaxing, fist - relax, fist - relax.  While neither were looking directly, Sherlock didn't miss it, and John, behind his no-nonsense irritated outward demeanor, was inwardly smiling broadly.

Sherlock weighed his options, and John watched his face for the very moment he decided he didn't want to risk getting punched and backed down.  John could also tell that round one of the virtual boxing match was about to commence.   _Ding!_

"Why didn't you complete it, the real reason this time."  No answer.  Not even a change in the cool expression.  Dripping condescension, John shook his head, exaggeratedly, "Oh, just as I figured, another mindless student, a sheep in the herd."  He'd already intuited that to call Sherlock Holmes ordinary was the ultimate insult, and the way he saw Sherlock's eyes blaze, he knew he was right on the mark with that.  Sighing as if disappointed, he continued, "Or,  I suppose you didn't because you don't know most of the answers, and you thought it more clever to leave everything blank than to risk getting any wrong."

"I know the material.  Inside and out."  Sherlock looked John in the eye, steadily.  "Sore hand is all.  Didn't want to write that much."

John didn't even try to stop the grin and then the bark of laughter.  "Right.  Turning pages, using a mobile.  I call bullshit on that.  There is nothing wrong with your hand."

Sherlock's bright eyes gave away the thrill he was getting under John's attention and focus.  Meeting John's eye in an almost dare, he offered, "Eye strain.  Long day at a computer screen and working translating a scientific work from German to English."

"Also a lie."  John began to thumb through the exams to locate Sherlock's test again.  "You're going to take the exam now."

Sherlock closed his eyes, lips pursed in an expression of disgust, continuing to look bored, and didn't look up as John held the paper, shaking it slightly to get his attention.  Sherlock's eyes remained closed, but he puffed out a breath and then began.  "Number one:  the answer is that biological diversity explains quite a bit of the variations in the normal flora of the region you mention, which by the way is the lesser-approved spelling..."  John held his breath just a bit as Sherlock answered that question completely, then recited and answered question two, all the way through question nine.  When he got to question ten, he paused, eyes still closed, still managing to look disinterested.  "Number ten is a poorly worded, slightly ambiguous question.  You should have taken the negative from the beginning of the description to the middle, and even then it is marginally unclear.  But of course I know what you were trying to ask, and the answer is ..." and he continued, barely needing to pause and collect his thoughts.

When he was done, he lifted his head to look directly at John, who was still holding the paper and returning his gaze levelly.  "That's fabulous, Sherlock Holmes.  Well done."  There was no emotion or sincerity in the flat statement, and _that_ grabbed Sherlock's attention, as it was obviously not what he expected.  "A lovely demonstration of your eidetic memory."

That surprised Sherlock as well, and he met John's eyes, puzzled.

"And a waste of it, in my opinion."  John checked his sarcasm, raised a brow in all seriousness.  "Because now you can write all your answers down, just like the rest of the class had to, and turn it in as soon as you are done."

"I just gave you all the answers."

"Yes," and for a brief moment John worked really hard not to let the self-satisfied smirk on his face, but then failed, which Sherlock noticed of course, and frowned himself in return back at John.  "But your test is still blank.  Still a failure."  He handed the paper to Sherlock, along with a pencil.  "You have ten minutes.  Get busy."

 


	2. Drop and Give Me Twenty

Had it not been for the damned continuing need for the cane, John might have actually had a spring in his step as he walked to the tube stop.  It was misting, but even that didn't seem to be bothering his leg as much as usual.  Not a bad second night of class, he thought.  Even the confrontation with Sherlock Holmes was not terribly awful.  He'd managed to gain the upper hand - exam completed, student, although still with a terrible attitude, put in his place.

John felt empowered, invigorated, and as he neared his flat, he fastened his coat before the tube stop, juggled his case and the cane, trading hands to unlock his door.  There was a bit of an aching in his leg, a gnawing twinge in his shoulder from the healing wound, which did seem a bit worse in the misty, damp, cold weather.  His flat was comfortably benign, not exciting, but he began to prepare tea, rubbing his hand over the still-sore shoulder, feeling the edges of the scab a bit itchy as it continued to heal.  He could feel the muscle flexing as he rubbed, just the simple action of shoulder movement.  Improving, he realised, as the soreness was not so bad.  He massaged it once more, then took a seat to sip tea and grade papers.  He read through the exams, marking them efficiently, with almost all of the students doing fairly well - a good sign, he thought.  He'd saved Sherlock's for last, mostly curious at the student's presence in this class in the first place, clearly an over-intelligent bloke with an over-inflated opinion of himself.  John could still picture the smirk he'd been sporting as he'd left the classroom, and the compelling, pale skin and even more compelling, pale blue eyes under the dark, unruly curls.  John stopped himself right there.   _Moving on._

Sherlock's exam was filled out in mostly uniform script, written with a careful hand.  He'd written his name as simply S. Holmes across the top.  Question one, then...  and as John began to read, he leaned forward, the gasp coming from his chest despite the fact that no one would hear it.  W _hat the hell did he do here...?!_  

When Sherlock had handed in the exam, John had simply skimmed it for completeness, seeing his name and the first phrase of the first question's answer, the rest of the answers filled in down the page, every question answered as John had expected.  All had seemed in order.  Interestingly enough, John realised now, he should have looked at it more closely.  No wonder the student had been all but gloating as he strutted out of the room, tail twitching, with a lopsided dimpled smile, a toss of his curls and a toss of the long coat he wore so well.  Because, John saw as he graded papers there in his flat, the rest of the paper was written in bloody French.

 _Jesus Christ_ , he sneered.  So much for the upper hand.

He glanced at the paper again.  Even the script now seemed obnoxious, carefully printed, a flair about each letter and word.  How did a student manage to convey such a defiant attitude even in his blasted handwriting?

John swallowed, thinking about ripping the exam in half, about simply and deservedly failing him, about a few other options including digging up his address and going to pay him a little visit.  But a cooler head prevailed then, and he chose his plan.  All right, he realised, if he was going to have a smart aleck student, too big for his britches, spoiling for a fight and thinking he could get away with this type of behaviour, well, John would have to stay at least one step ahead.  And maintain control, using extreme measures if necessary.  He would not be caught unawares again.  If nothing else, Afghanistan had prepared him well for suspecting the worst, being prepared for ambush, and to roll with the punches, ready for anything.  His healing shoulder wound quivered, his leg started to cramp, and he well was reminded that little skirmishes could still have big payoffs.

Turning on his computer, he typed a few things, starting with a search for the on-campus translating services, and formulated his strategy.

++

The next class, John arrived carefully on time, not too early but well prior to the start of class.  He kept his head focused on his destination but was very aware that one of his students, the challenge, the curious man who'd occupied entirely too much of his thinking for the past week, stood in the shadows of one of the walkways, mostly out of his direct line of sight, as John entered the building where his room was housed.  Ignoring his presence as he passed by, he kept his steps and the use of the cane even, fairly certain Sherlock wouldn't be far behind.  The classroom was dark, and he flipped on lights, set up in class, cued up the video for the evening, and casually looked up when Sherlock entered the room.  "Ah, hello again, Mr. Holmes."  He straightened up tall for full effect, paused as Sherlock took in his presence and his bearing.  "I'll be needing to speak to you after class tonight."

"Dear me, I can't imagine why."  If the degree of sarcasm could be measured, it was entirely off the scale, John thought.

"This is biology.  I don't need your imagination.  Science, as you know, is grounded in fact."  John watched a few more students arrive, letting his assertive stride combine with the use of his cane, across the lino at the front of the room, convey that he was staking his claim, asserting his presence.  "I will see you after class, then."  He turned away, then, but could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him.  Looking to ensure visual dominance as well, he'd chosen his attire carefully, smart leather boots, fitted casual denims in a dark hue, and a half sleeved fitted shirt that clung.  The muscles that had reached peak definition with all the exercise, work, and training programmes in the military were visible but not bulky, with his shirt stretched almost tightly across his shoulders and showing off the firm tautness of his upper arms.  He'd briefly toyed with the idea of wearing his military fatigues for effect, but thought that too obvious a display, and he knew his officer's bearing was a commanding presence.  As a habit, he was wearing his dog tags, which were hidden for the most part, but should anyone have been looking (or otherwise checking him out) they would have been somewhat apparent with the outline hanging over his sternum and the chain just peeking out the neckline of his shirt.

John returned the exams mid-class, simply placed them face up on each desk as he walked between the rows.  His diction as he explained his grading procedures, the expectations of the department as they meshed with his own, was smooth and professional.  John could tell in his peripheral vision that Sherlock was anxiously awaiting, trying to act less excited than he was, and John carefully avoided looking at him directly as he placed the exam on his desk.  He simply set it down and moved on.  It was graded initially as a 98%, carefully scored, comments written in neatly printed (English) along the margin.  He could tell the very moment when Sherlock looked at the interim markdowns and then saw the final, circled score - 78% - and was not displeased when he could see Sherlock's anger overtake his surprise.  The red flush about his ears, cheekbones, and neck lasted through the entire class.   _Mission accomplished._

++

After class, Sherlock tried not to appear too agitated, waited until most students were out of the room, certainly out of earshot before approaching the front of the room, where John was making a few notes in his lesson plans for the upcoming classes.

"You asked me to stay."

"I did."  The biro clicked satisfyingly as John stood at the podium and made the final edit to his lesson planner.  Finished, he closed the leather-bound journal, unrushed, pushed it to the side of the lectern.  "Have a seat," he ordered, gesturing at the chair just opposite him.

John let the silence draw out, looking to make sure Sherlock knew exactly who was in control of the conversation, that it would proceed on John's terms.  The silence, as John figured, grated on the student.  "Well?" he asked, impatiently with a sweep of his elegant hands, long legs folding as he sat across from John.  The 'get on with it' was implied, and John let a small smile speak for itself.

"I wanted to ask you if it should have been necessary for me to stipulate that the exam was to be completed in English."  John stood, shoulders wide, arms crossed.  He knew what he looked like, exactly as he intended - in charge, the position of authority, the don't-mess-with me set to his angular jaw.  His eyes could sparkle if he wanted, but for now he wanted steely, harsh, _displeased_ eyes.

John watched Sherlock's eyes take in the shoulders, the stance, the biceps, then stutter a bit when John cleared his throat, calling him back to the moment.  "I've had other bilingual teachers."

"That is not what I asked, now, is it?"  Keeping his tone neutral, he let the condescending simplicity of the words convey what he thought of Sherlock's decision.  John knew that Sherlock was not going to answer the question, and so he paused a few moments before continuing.  "So what game exactly are you playing here?"  While it wasn't truly possible, unfortunately, John watched Sherlock's face and was fairly certain that he was trying to decide how much of a brat to be, how much he could get away with, how hard to resist.  John didn't let him get too far ahead in that line of thinking.  "I mean, if you truly don't want to be here, please leave.  Please.  There's no point both of us wasting time or energy.  But from my understanding, you not only need to attend, but _pass_ this class to prove your willingness to follow directions so you can work with the Met, right?"  John had only made one quick phone call, to DI Greg Lestrade, whose name was on Sherlock's paperwork as the listing for a personal reference, to find this detail out.  With a stubborn set to his jaw, Sherlock nodded reluctantly, once.  Thinking the towering over the student was not necessarily helping matters, he slid a chair over in front of him, eased down onto it.  John crossed a leg over his ankle, leaned back in his chair, watching his student.  "So why the games?"

"Not a game."

"I could have failed you on that test.  And probably should have, from what DI Lestrade advised me."  John let another smile appear briefly as he added, "He tells me you're not always the easiest to work with."

"Go ahead and fail me."  Trying to act with bravado, Sherlock raised his chin, glanced at the test and at John.  "Why didn't you then?"

 _Good question_ , John thought.  "For some reason, I chose to show you mercy."

"Yes, but not really.  The 78 is really rather undeserved."  Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his lips in a disgusted pout, his voice cynical and hard.  "So merciful, indeed."

"One letter grade for each day late, just as the syllabus notes.  The B was the highest you could have possibly achieved, given your blank test the first day.  I had to have your test translated, which added a day to the process - thus, two days late."

"I'm not going to grovel for a higher grade.  And don't expect me to say thank you, either."  Clearly, Sherlock didn't give two shits, John could see, but he did seem to thrive on the confrontation.  "It should have been an 80.  What was the two point deduction for?"

"Failure to follow directions.  The top of the page says 'full name.'  You gave me S. Holmes."

"That's petty."

"My classroom, my rules.  You should learn to obey them."  John taps the paper again, that Sherlock is holding.  "If you do this again, pull a stunt like this, you will receive a zero score and be immediately removed from the class roster."  John waited until Sherlock partially nodded as if he understood.  "You should choose carefully how you proceed, your behaviour as well as your attitude.  Because I will not tolerate further misconduct in my class."

"Actually, Professor," and Sherlock paused there to let his word convey all that he meant it to, using the title intentionally as a barb, "I dare say that the truth is that you are actually _enjoying_ this."

"Keep it up if you are willing to risk being ejected from this class."  John knew his face gave away nothing, and was grateful that, if nothing else, learning to keep quite a mask on had been a useful med school and then army skill.  "Your DI friend was very enlightening, by the way.  You should know that just because you're not a full time uni student, that does not entitle you to any special considerations.  You will do the work just like everyone else."

"Perhaps I am just seeking a bit of attention from my very attractive, advanced biology prof."  John was not expecting that, letting his eyes cut sharply to Sherlock's face.  "Or would you prefer that I seek attention from an injured ex-army doctor recently home, invalided from Iraq?"  He was bright eyed, then, looking at John, eyes flicking to his shoulders, biceps, the outline of John's military tags.  "Oh, wait, could they perhaps be the very same person?"  The sing-songy sarcasm went straight from Sherlock's smart-aleck mouth right to John's jaw muscles, and they clenched immediately.

John's reaction was almost imperceptible, and the men in his unit would have been appropriately concerned - when Captain Watson grew quiet and deadly, it always spelled trouble.  "You have just crossed a line, Holmes."  The low register of John's voice should have struck fear into Sherlock.

"So?"  Without so much as a blink, Sherlock's chin jutted out as he challenged John.

Conflicting thoughts went through John's mind immediately as he maintained a stoic facade, watching Sherlock.  Even as he didn't appreciate the attitude, the defiance, and the sass, he appreciated the lively grin, the zest for life, and the thrill of the conflict as Sherlock had accused him.  But as the prof with his student he could not afford to let Sherlock get away with this.  His low voice gave away nothing as he said, "The soldiers in the unit I commanded would drop and give me twenty, or something harsher perhaps, for less insolence than that.  I've half a mind..."  At that, the men connected eyes, and John made a quick decision.  "Actually, you know what, Sherlock.  Go right ahead."  John hesitated only long enough to raise an eyebrow and point to the floor there at their feet.  "Twenty."

"What?"  Sherlock stared, eyes approaching large.  "You can't be serious."

"Care to try for thirty?"  Everything about John's posture screamed _I dare you._

The shape of Sherlock's brow and the changing position of his mouth gave John a clue that Sherlock was indeed keeping his retorts to himself and surprisingly didn't actually speak up to argue.  Finally his better judgment did win out, he muttered a breathy curse, and rose from his chair.  The coat was set aside, and Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs, rapidly rolling his sleeves up all the while glaring silently at John.  His first three push-ups were quick, mostly effortless.

"Count out loud."

"Four, five, six."  And he paused, arms fully extended, said, "Fairly certain the university frowns on corporal punishment."

"By definition, this is forced physical exercise, not corporal punishment.  It is not designed with the intent to inflict pain."  John watched muscle groups tensing and listened to slightly more laboured breathing, as Sherlock, lowering and rising much more slowly, passed thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.  John stood up himself to watch, circled around to Sherlock's side, heels clicking on the floor.  "Back straight."  He heard the annoyed exhale of Sherlock's breath, but the student wisely kept his complaint to himself.

The pauses between numbers was a bit longer even, and his voice quieter as he concentrated.  "... nineteen... twenty."  He was somewhat out of breath, trying to hide that as he stood.  There was a bit of perspiration at the armpit and temple, but he stood tall looking back at John as he wiped his brow off-handedly.  "Happy now?"

"Satisfied."  John knew his own expression was smug as he offered, "If you'd like to admit that caused you pain, I will admit that _may_ have been corporal punishment."

"No, I think not."

"You were wrong, by the way."  John shrugged into his coat, watching Sherlock controlling his breathing and shaking out muscles that were trembling a bit at the unfamiliar, strenuous use.

"Wrong?"

"It was Afghanistan."

Wordless, Sherlock cocked his head, brows furrowed as he stood watching John gather the rest of his things, preparing to leave. 

"Afghanistan.  Not Iraq."  John imagined the power shifting back to him as he tapped his biro against the edge of the desk before sliding it inside his coat pocket.  "Remember that this is my classroom, I am your professor."  He let his voice slow down, knowing it was low and that Sherlock suddenly looked ... hungry.  "Which makes you my student.  And you _will_ follow my instructions."

"We'll see about that." 

"You can count on it. _I guarantee it_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, ex-military John and a misbehaving student? The push-ups were too good to pass up, particularly after seeing BC in the Dr. Strange clips doing push-ups on set. I had to - of course!


	3. Go Home, Sherlock

One class a couple of weeks later was punctuated by a tremendous downpour, and a few class members, Sherlock among them, were not in the room as class was to begin, but John did not cater to latecomers and started only a few minutes after official start time.  John took a look around at the class, led through a bit of discussion on one of the assignments, and clarified that the final project was such that none of them could afford to wait until the last minute.  He was nearly finished explicating one of the more complicated components when Sherlock arrived, very late by that point, moving quickly, skirted the perimeter of the classroom before sliding into one of the desks vacant in the back row.  His movements, his behaviour, his very body carriage, seemed off.  While not losing his train of thought, John wondered if whatever had made him late was related to the weather, or something else altogether.

Watching with an occasional glance, an awareness, it didn't take long for John to figure it out, and once he did, he made a quick decision, determined a good stopping point, and set aside the remote to his laptop, addressed the class.  "We're going to take a break here.  See you in fifteen minutes."  All but Sherlock gathered jackets or otherwise made efforts toward leaving the room for one reason or another.  Sherlock sighed quietly, something not quite a moan, placed his elbows on the desk, and twined his hands into his curls then rubbed at his face, eyes closed, otherwise motionless in the chair.

The irregular sound of John's shoes on the lino interspersed with his cane were loud in the otherwise empty room as he approached Sherlock.

"Any specific reason you're late, Holmes?" John asked, direct and not mincing words.  When there was no answer, John gave one quick glance over his shoulder to assure their privacy, and grasped firmly the back of Sherlock's head, fingers into curls, tilting Sherlock's skull with a strong hand.  Matter-of-factly, with Sherlock's face plainly visible, he pried open an eyelid with a confident finger, first one then the other.  It was obvious, apparent, blatant.  "How _dare_ you?"

"What?"

"How dare you come to my class high?"

"I'm fine."  Sherlock seemed to give himself a shake, and sat up a bit higher, pushing his head up into John's hand.  The contact was sparkling, pins and needles, glorious - hair, fingers, twisting, holding, a vibrant connection.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I heard something about a break, and I believe I'm going to take full advantage of that."

"If anything or anyone is going to be taken advantage of," John said, growling low in his throat and letting his fingers wrap into Sherlock's hair, tugging firmly, just enough to remind him who's in control, "I can guarantee you it won't be that."

"Damn shame, then."  Sherlock chuckled at his own perception of his cleverness, still with his head forced to look up at his teacher, who was glaring down at him.  "Is it still taking advantage of someone if they're willing?"  He grinned up at John, the laughter and vibrato in his chest transmitting through his body so that John could feel it in his hand still holding Sherlock's head.

John worked hard not to let his fingers clench in response to the innuendo.  "You are going to sit through class.  I expect you to take notes to keep your mind occupied appropriately."

Huff.  Slouch.   _"Fine."_

"Be assured I'm going to check them.  Pay attention, or else."  John took a step back, opened Sherlock's notebook, pointed at the blank page.  " _Notes_ , Holmes."

"Sounds like quite the punishment, with your lackluster presentation and the tedious material."

"Good thing you like to be challenged, then."  John also wanted to point out that the rest of the class seemed to be able to follow along, pay attention, not act terribly bored.  Knowing Sherlock was simply trying to be an irritant, he chose to not engage.  "I'm sure you can manage."

"Doubtful."

John let his eyes bore into Sherlock's, taking in the degree of pupil dilation, the bounding temporal artery pulse, the pallor with flushed cheeks, and the restlessness that he was trying to mask.  Almost as visible was the high energy student eager to make something happen - not dissimilar to a bored toddler hyped up on sugar - and Sherlock stared straight at John, then smiled, just a small deliberate one, _impish._  John narrowed his eyes, watching him carefully for the moment when he would choose to act out.  Just as Sherlock's hand began to move, headed straight for the inside of John's knee, John cleared his throat, menacingly.  With an almost guilty look, Sherlock froze briefly, glanced up, and John moved his cane just barely to intercept the hand that then kept creeping toward him.  "I think not."  The hesitation was only slight, but enough that the moment was broken, and John took a small step back, tapping his cane on the floor as he did.  "Sit up."  With a raised brow of warning, John let as much inference as he thought he could get away with enter his voice as he drew out his words slowly, _"Back straight_."  Both of them knew he was referring to the push-ups John had demanded of him a few weeks previously.

Sherlock's eyes sparkled despite himself, and he did not attempt to hide his amusement as he let his slouch initially be more pronounced.  It was a glimpse, John realised, of what a younger, more immature Sherlock Holmes would have been like as a student, his face and expression youthful and open.  He could almost picture curls even more unruly than they were now, and the sticking out of a stubborn tongue with arms akimbo.  There was a moment where John expected an audible chuckle, and was prepared to deal with that and correct it, but instead, Sherlock simply wriggled in the chair then did in fact fix his posture.

Voices in the hallway got louder, signaling that few class members were returning then, and John returned to his desk.  Counting down the remaining minutes of the break, he busied himself with his laptop and mobile, chatted with a few students who had come back early.  When class resumed a few minutes later, John kept a discreet but observant eye on the man.  The notes, he found after class, when he had dismissed the class, were actually passable.  And in English.

"Not bad, Sherlock.  Rather thorough, actually.  Well done."  John would have ruffled Sherlock's hair, like he might have done when affirming a young child after rendering medical care, such was the sentiment he was feeling as he watched Sherlock react, _preening_ almost to the compliment.  However, he kept that urge tightly under wraps.  "Pack up," he said, nodding toward his desk as he loaded his own bag, shut down the technology.  When Sherlock hadn't moved to follow John's direction, John stood near, crossed his arms as he stared down at him.  "Come on, then."

Sherlock had absently closed his notebook, pocketed his writing tool, but was slow to move, clearly lost in thought.

The glazed look about Sherlock, his seeming slower processing time, was mildly concerning.  John stepped over, tapped him smartly on the arm.  "I said, _come_."  When there was no particular reaction, John gave him a very slight shake.  "Are you listening to me at all?"

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Your voice.  The exact timbre of it, the ... I don't know.  It catches me," Sherlock said as he stood, close to John, so close as to have invaded his personal space, their chests only inches apart, "right here.  Resonates, reverberates in my chest.  Something about the pitch, perhaps."  Sherlock's eyes were wide, and John could feel the hitch in his own chest as Sherlock put his hand flat on John's sternum.

"That's quite enough of that."  John glanced down at the long fingers that were splayed over him.  They were warm and pressing against his chest muscles with more familiarity and ownership than they had a right to have.

"Say something again.  Maybe it is rattling directly from here.  Vibrations, or subglottal phonations perhaps?"  He shifted his hand to John's neck, feeling each side of the larynx.  "Say something else."

"Stop it,  _Sherlock_."  John grasped his wrist, pulling and peeling him off, inching back.  "You're not thinking clearly right now."

"Clear enough."  There was a moment, where John's hand and Sherlock's wrist positively radiated between them, the skin warm and tingling, and John felt the stirrings of desire even as he knew he held the conection just a shade too long.  Sherlock caught the phrase John had used.  " _Right now_.  Right now?"  There was a grin and it was young with boyish exuberance.  "I do believe that means you would be considering it if things were different, if the circumstance was different, if I weren't high."  While John weighed any sort of appropriate response, Sherlock continued, "Admit it, your use of the words  _right now_ implies a _maybe later_."

That was enough of a stimulus for John to find something appropriate to say, halted the musings of his mind for the moment.  "Absolutely not."  His voice was harsh, authoritarian.  "This is not appropriate behaviour on any level.  How dare you presume that this, _using_ , coming to class impaired, is acceptable.  You consider yourself smart, but _this_?  Really quite foolish, you know," and John put his coat on, slid his bag up over his shoulder, "but to think that this would in any way endear you to DI Lestrade if he were to find out, that's somehow permissible?"

Sherlock drawled out an observation carefully, slowly, his eyes lively and bright blue.  "You're _deflecting_ , Dr. Watson."  Despite John's willing his face not to colour, he could feel heat crawl up his neck to infuse his cheeks.  He was grateful Sherlock moved on, anyway.  "And Lestrade knows.  He's seen me this way before."

"And approved?  I highly doubt that."  The petulant face Sherlock was making was almost endearing, and John could have laughed had it been something other than substance abuse, it simply wasn't a laughing matter to him.  "I'm sure he wouldn't tolerate this, either, and I'm sure he'd suggest, no, _demand,_ you get yourself sorted."

Had John been wanting a truthful answer to that, Sherlock gave it by the way he couldn't maintain eye contact, and then squirmed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Coffee shoppe."  John paused by the light switch, waiting as Sherlock fussed at his coat collar and followed him.  "I'm buying, and you need it."

The campus had largely wound down for the night, a few straggling students chatting in the quad, the lights casting odd shadows.  The coffee shoppe was just next to the library, and there were more people there, for which John was grateful.  He bought two beverages, and then watched amused as Sherlock added sugar to the cup John gave him, until the texture was almost syrupy.  "Like it sweet, do you?" John asked, shaking his head.  While Sherlock seemed more interactive, his pupils were still rather dilated and his skin was still a bit moist and sweaty.

"And haven't eaten today.  Figure I need the calories to tolerate whatever you're going to bore me with."

Taking a sip, John watched the bloke across from him, the behaviours that were both disappointing and ominous.  "You know I could report you officially.  Drug use by a student on school grounds is a punishable offense."

"But you won't."

"I haven't, not yet."  John sipped his own coffee, black, surreptitiously checked his mobile for the time.  "Not formally anyway."

"I don't do it much, but today ..." and he began to explain his motivation, reasons, offering rationalisation upon excuse, until John happened to catch sight of a stranger in the doorway, clearly here looking for someone.  John hoped it was the person he'd summoned by text during class, who was due to arrive soon, as he'd promised.  Having never met, of course John didn't recognise him on sight, but John noticed when he spotted John's student (an expression of both recognition and relief) and they identified each other through that connection.  The DI nodded, a somber look of consternation about him as he took it all in.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, having picked up on John's gaze and sudden change of attention.  Turning, Sherlock saw, then, scowling, his face flushed crimson.  Abruptly, he turned back, hissed, "You had no right.  You said you didn't!"

"I didn't.  Officially.  But there are always consequences, and you would be wise to learn that quickly.  Next time - if there's a next time - I won't hesitate, officially."  John stood to his feet as DI Lestrade approached, and they introduced themselves, while Sherlock sank further into the bench in a sulk.  John ignored Sherlock directly, but his mouth quirked at Sherlock's body language.  "Thanks for coming over."

Greg stood, quietly, absorbing Sherlock's behaviour, paying attention as he waited, his hands in his pockets, and nodded once at John as he waited for Sherlock to look over at him.  To Sherlock, he asked, "Bad day again?"  At Greg's words, Sherlock exhaled sharply, obviously not looking for him to have confirmed John's suspicions.  "We discussed this, reme--"

"Oh, please.  This is unnecessary.  Go away."  His lip curled in a sneer as he flung an unhappy curse John's direction.  "You had no right."

John hesitated, put his fingertips on the table then leaned in to speak in a low tone to Sherlock.  "Listen up.  There are people who want to help you get clean and stay that way.  The two of us being among them for some reason.  You have to stop."

Sherlock didn't sit up, but scooted over a little, moved away as Greg sat down to join him, but directed his venom at John.  "All right, then.  If you're so smart, and you expect me to listen to you, where's your damned cane?  You and your fake limp and the leg injury that isn't real!?  It doesn't lend to your credibility, you know."

John's teeth clenched in response, but he did not hesitate to refocus the conversation.  "We aren't talking about me.  This is about you and your dangerous, illegal choices.  Your _unacceptable_ choices."  He could picture his cane back in the classroom, leaning against the shelf near where Sherlock had been sitting.  And Sherlock was right - he hadn't remembered it and his leg didn't even hurt.  "And you should listen to both of us if you want a shot at this job you claim to be after."  Swallowing hard and hoping that, now it had been pointed out to him, that his leg wouldn't give out on him, he took his things and his coffee.  "See you next week in class."  To the detective, he simply touched his arm in passing, said, "Thanks again for getting right over when I rang," and left.

The discomfort in his leg returned almost immediately, and, limping, John returned to his classroom to reclaim his cane.  He and his therapist had already discussed this, his psychosomatic pain, but he was more curious as to what had temporarily relieved it tonight.  And wondering if the bloke, who had noticed the aberrancy even while mildly impaired, was to credit for the distraction.

++

The following week's class was delivered by a guest lecturer across all sections of the class, so John had little to prepare for other than to show up, introduce him, take attendance, and answer a few routine questions.  There were lab write-ups to return, but largely John had little responsibility for the evening.  The lecturer, from a research lab in India, was brilliant, relevant, if a little dry on the presentation.  John was pleased, however, when some of the students, Sherlock among them, asked interesting questions that showed they not only grasped the material but were engaged with the classroom discussion.

John spent a few moments after class straightening chairs, and was a bit surprised none of the students, not one of them, lingered to talk.  At the campus cafe, he stopped for tea on his way home, spoke to a few people there he recognised now, and decided to catch the tube at a further stop than usual, as it was cool but not raining.  His leg was still bothering him, the cane an annoyance but helpful to him, and as he walked, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle a few times.  Awareness of footsteps behind him, not too close, that slowed when he slowed gave him pause, and then it occurred to him why.  Or, more likely, _who_.

By the time he'd passed a few blocks, he was certain.  He had reason to smile when he turned his head slightly, could see in the very edge of his peripheral vision a tall, long-coated profile following him, keeping pace.  He knew of course exactly who it was, but feigned ignorance and indifference as he entered the tube car, sat down at one end, pulled out his mobile to occupy himself.  As expected, he could just barely see Sherlock keeping mostly out of sight across the far end of the car, quiet and unobtrusive.  John's mind whirled a bit as he considered exactly where and how he wanted to allow his student to declare himself, or attempt to make contact.

He also debated a bit inwardly, wondering exactly how far he was willing to take this.  A non-traditional student, not in pursuit of a major or degree at this point, and a non-tenured, temporary, substitute faculty member - seemed a best case scenario if there would be blurring of their roles perhaps.  They were both adults, both interested, certainly.  Careful not to smile or otherwise give away any of his thoughts, he stood up as the tube neared his stop, adjusted his belongings.  He strode quickly from the car, rounded a corner to wait, tucking himself mostly out of sight in a dark-shadowed doorway, and allowed himself the smile he'd been withholding as steps grew closer, albeit quiet ones.

There was very little foot traffic on the street.  Sherlock missed John's hiding spot, and John waited only he was a few steps past him before moving stealthily to make up the distance between them, using care to keep his footsteps and cane silent.  Suddenly, without a sound or word, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock from behind, stepped quickly on his good leg, taking both of them the short distance into the alcove of a deserted building doorway.

"Looking for someone?"  With a deep voice, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, his mouth at Sherlock's neck, breathing warm.  Their bodies were taut, solid, and tense as John held Sherlock, pinning one arm down along his side with his own.

To Sherlock's credit, he was definitely startled, body tense, but had made not a sound when John lunged around him and did not struggle.  For the coolness of the night, neither man was feeling even a little chill.  "Perhaps," he finally said.

"Well, it's your unlucky day, because I found you instead."  The doorway was dark, the street only dimly lit with a streetlamp a distance away.  True to form, Sherlock was wearing his long coat, and John grabbed two handfuls of it, pushed at his shoulder.  They ended with John pressed up behind him, Sherlock's cheek barely resting against the rough bricked wall, John's hands firm and holding steady.  With Sherlock's upper body leaning into the door jamb, John pushed his face right into Sherlock's ear, whispered, "And now I have you right where I've been wanting you.  Imagining you."  The sentence was punctuated with the faintest nip of John's teeth at Sherlock's earlobe.  They were both breathing rather heavily, ribcages expanding, and John suppressed the initial urges and inclinations to reach his hands around front, under Sherlock's coat, press their pelvic regions together as they leaned against the building. 

"Your move, then," Sherlock said, a bit breathless, and did not hesitate to arch his upper back, angling his head against John's as if requesting that John take a snip of his ear again.

John resisted only briefly, then shuddered slightly, giving in to his desire, pressing his throbbing erection into Sherlock's perfect bum, his arm tightening around Sherlock's waist to draw them together tightly despite the layers of clothing.  "Never forget that it is indeed _my move_."  John said, his Captain Watson voice sounding quiet and stern, and he held Sherlock fast, right in place without letting him move, the tension rising, escalating, spiraling around them right up until the moment he briskly pushed away from Sherlock, breaking the hold of Sherlock's hand, and stepping back.  "This was bold, but not well thought out."   _Control,_ John thought. _It is mine, and I do not relinquish it easily._

Sherlock could not have looked more surprised, and both of them were panting lightly there on the kerb.  "But you're hard, too --" he began, but John brought up a hand to his mouth, touched lightly with his fingertips to silence him, and that combined with a harsh look, did then shut the man up. 

"Here's what I see about you.  You still aren't thinking.  Were you going to follow me all the way home?  Did you stop to consider if perhaps I have a flatmate, a wife, a partner waiting for me?"

"Pretty sure not a wife."

"Shut it.  I'm not done.  Another impulsive bad habit of yours, speaking without thinking."  A brow raised, and Sherlock kept stubbornly silent.  "So instead of thinking things through, you just act.  You do whatever the hell you want.  I'm not just talking about tonight, but throughout this semester. I dare say your parents never told you no.  You have turned into an adult who thinks the rules don't apply to him."  Sherlock's eyes were huge as he looked at John, who looked back, waiting for a response, and not getting any, he paused and said, "And then there's your drug habit."  The disapproval was undisguised.

"I've been clean this week."  The excuse sounded flimsy and lame to them both, and Sherlock looked away as John didn't back down at all.  

"You realise that doesn't impress me."

"Well, you on the other hand, feel rather _impressive_ to me," he quipped, brows wagging as he caught John's eye in his peripheral vision.  A minor shift in his position and he pressed against John again.  "I know you want it too.  Push me away, and you just might regret it."

"You couldn't possibly be foolish enough to threaten me, could you?"  John's head angled as if he couldn't quite believe Sherlock would do such a thing.

Sherlock's sharp inhale was only in part due to the low threatening growl in John's throat.  It was more likely due to the fact that John had his fist wrapped around the scarf and was holding it as if he could tighten it, and although he didn't, it was the faintest whisper, a hint of an assertion of Sherlock's vulnerability and John's restraint.  "No.  Of course not."  Sherlock cleared his throat, a finger coming up to feel the edge of the scarf under his chin.  A bit of a stand-off, a visual one, as one set of eyes bored into the other, a quest for dominance and an awareness of the play between them.

A bit of a moment as John continued to stare him down, and then he relaxed his grip, let Sherlock relax.  "Never forget that the power dynamic belongs to me."  When Sherlock loosened his scarf entirely, John let it free, slid his hand to the open coat placket, holding the thick wool and unwilling to let go or sever the connection completely.  "A week staying clean is a good start.  Keep it up.  I am feeling rather inclined to reward your good behaviour, provided you stay the course."  Leaning in, splaying his fingers in Sherlock's lapel again, he pulled him close, their lips slowly approaching, then meeting.  The first brush was warm, dry, their breath touching lip, chin, and jaw.  John grasped him firm, holding him, let the rest of their bodies come in contact.  Hot and sweet, their mouths opened, wet and oh-so-warm, the briefest hint of tongue and teeth entangling as the kiss deepened.  A moan sounded from somewhere in the depths of John's chest, was answered in a faint whine from Sherlock.  There was suction, the clench of a stocky hand on an angled jawline, guiding, asserting, and two pairs of eyes dark with arousal that met, clung, lingered.

Shaking himself mentally and sighing, John released his grip on Sherlock's clothing.  The exhale and shiver was one of frustration and heat and desire and unsatisfied longing.  "Go home, Sherlock."  The words were resolute, an order, a command.  John nudged him, pushing at his arm in the direction of the tube cars.  Sherlock planted his feet, clearly a question on his face, one he wanted to ask.  Chuckling, John grinned at his expression, then whispered, emphatic and slow.  "Yes, when I said reward I meant more than just that.  So behave yourself."  There was a smile and a bit of pupil dilation when John arched his eyebrow over a stern expression and added, "Off you go, now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original ending to this chapter went somewhere else entirely on first attempt. I hope you enjoyed this. I can assure you the next chapter starts with quite a classroom confrontation. Apparently I needed a bit of BAMF Professor Watson.


	4. Break the Will but not the Spirit

John slapped the stack of papers against the podium.  The required core curriculum paper that he'd just graded was in a pile in front of him, and he was on a tear about it.  "So these, really, far below what I was expecting from the lot of you advanced students."  He ruffled through the tops, reading some of the grades aloud, "79, 72, 70, 81, 84..."  He stopped, then.  "Don't get me wrong, these are not bad grades.  For everyone else, that is.  For you all, this is just... shocking.  Pathetic.  You are all here because you earned it, with your programmes and your GPAs and your department chair recommendations.  I realise this assignment is rather simple, a review, and, well, honestly, beneath what this class is capable of, but it is basic foundational material.  And required for credit.  It should have been an easy 'A' for the lot of you.  I also know some of you are busy with finals in other courses, but this?  Disappointing.  Unbefitting students of your calibre."

There was a muttering from one of the students, a low grumble of unintelligible words, a short burst of an under-someones-breath reaction.  John opted not to call attention to it.

"Advanced students, all of you, really have to perform as such.  You can't be lax or slack off."  John couldn't tell if he was reaching them, if anyone particularly cared.  "I am expecting the department chairperson to be contacting me when these post.  I'm not sure if I can explain why this section of intelligent students scored thus."

"It was the degrading nature of the assignment.  Or," and the speaker paused for effect before continuing, "perhaps it was the poorly worded instructions."  Dead silence reigned in the room a moment, then, "Along with the inadequate lecture preparation and poor material presentation."

A faint, collective inhale circulated the room, a shocked and horrified reaction to a disrespectful statement.  John raised his head, let his eyes bore directly into the speaker - those of Sherlock Holmes.  They'd had no interaction since the night Sherlock had followed him home.  John smiled darkly, a sinister grin, at Sherlock.  "Ah yes, Mr. Holmes, isn't it?  And since you've become the spokesperson for this entire class, let's see, your score was, what?"  John ruffled through the stack, knowing full well what he was looking for.  "Yes, that's right, didn't even turn this assignment in, did you?"

"It was an insult for an advanced section to be forced to write such a mundane paper.  It was an unreasonable assignment," and he launched into a short rant consisting of a few additional sentences, excuses, until John halted him, but Sherlock wasn't done.  " _Offensive_ ," he insisted, his very tone and posture on the aggressive from his spot in the second row.

"That's quite enough," he said, lethally calm - and they all recognised the fact that barely containing his fury under his outer control.  "I happen to know the other sections of this class, that meet during the day, had the same instructions, the same amount of time for completion, the same textbook and reading expectations.  Average score 92, all papers turned in.  Would you like to know the average score for this section, even if I factor out the score for the paper - _your_ paper - not submitted?"  John paused, took in the fidgeting and the lack of eye contact of many of the students.  "Perhaps you all thought you could get away with this, my being the new prof and this being the evening class section.  Absolutely not.  Your papers will all be re-done by next week.  If the quality is improved significantly, I'll consider giving full credit, but you must demonstrate substantial effort on your parts.  Is that clear?" John asked, his gaze traveling from one student to the other.  When he was satisfied at the cowed expressions, his eyes sought out Sherlock.  "Holmes."   Intentionally, he did not ask as if summoning him, but stated his name, focusing not only his authority but the attention of the class on the dynamic between them.  There was no response initially, and the silence grew until Sherlock did finally make eye contact.  Displeased, John counted off a few seconds as their eyes held, then stated, "You will report to me after class."

He took the class the full time, no breaks, and was pleased at the motivation most of the students managed to show.  There was class participation, thoughtful questions, and intentional discussion.  So, upon dismissal, he softened his earlier statements.  "Look, give it your best efforts, these last weeks of class.  I remember the demands of school, but you can all do this, without a doubt.  You have proven yourself to this point, and you're capable of much more.  Now, I expect you all to finish well."

Most of the students made a very quick exit, giving nary a glance at Sherlock nor John.  It was only a few short minutes until the last student had filed out, and John waited until the steps grew quieter down the hall then faded completely.

John turned back to Sherlock.  "Sit down."

His jaw clenched.  Even though he didn't speak the words aloud, it was as if his whole visage was broadcasting 'make me'.  Apparently, John realised, he was still spoiling for that fight, choosing to be headstrong and difficult.

"Sit down," John said, feral.  "I'm fairly certain you do not want to begin this way with me tonight."

He'd barely finished the statement when he could see Sherlock begin to protest.  John reached out with the handle of his cane, the motion lightning quick and wholly unexpected, caught the back of Sherlock's knee.  A brief shove of John's hand was all it took to seat him - to fold Sherlock, just tall enough to be slightly off balance, lowering his unwilling body into the chair behind him.  They were both well aware that John had firmly grasped his arm to make sure he landed exactly where John intended, without incident.

"Juvenile behaviour does not suit you."  John could feel his own pulse pounding, thrumming beneath his ribs.  His body behaved as if it knew it was not only being watched, but being desired, and without a downward glance, he knew his chest was out, shoulders square.

"Aggressive behaviour _does_ seem to suit you, so I thought I'd ..."

John's dark glare was a perfect companion to the words he chose to interrupt Sherlock.  "I'm warning you: _stop it._ "

"Oh for gods sake, you're making a big deal out of something trivial.  It's a bloody paper, just grade it leniently and move on.  Perhaps you should remember, Professor, you're dealing with adults here.  Who have, as you said, already proven themselves intelligent and capable."

"The department does not consider this trivial in the least.  One of the core educational components of the course."  It was not a difficult thing for John to channel quite a bit of harshness into his words without actually needing to raise his voice.  What Officers training didn't equip him with he learned on the job, on base, and he had never needed to employ discipline more than once.  He had a reputation for swift and harsh justice.  "As you'll recall, though, your failure to turn in the assignment is not why you're here."  There was no arguing with that point of truth, and Sherlock knew it, but he sighed, looked bored, and, as was his plan, it brought out a bit of emotion in John.  " _How dare you_ speak that way to me!  Do you enjoy this role you've chosen?  That of a spoiled adolescent throwing a tantrum?"  Sherlock was indeed, John could tell just by the expression, thriving on the confrontation and eager for the argument.  "Are you hoping I'll turn you over my knee, or something equally befitting your behaviour?  Make you stand in the corner?  Because that is how disobedient children get treated."

John was standing right next to his difficult student in the chair, towering over him as it were, and Sherlock's eyes dilated a bit in excitement tinged with perhaps a bit of fear and arousal as John opposed him.  Sherlock straightened, his chest out in arrogance, shirt buttons straining, a smirk on his face, consumed with an impertinent expression.  "I am not a child."

"No, you are not.  And you should know, I have no intention of bending you over my knee."  The class only had a few weeks left, and John had already accepted a position outside of the university, GP at a surgery, and would not be returning.  "If I bend you over anything," he said, his voice rough and in a low register, and he let the sentence hang there a moment, "it will be over this desk with your ..."   He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but the gravelly way the words were implied left the 'arse bared' almost as obvious as if he'd actually said it.  The tension between them that had started as a teacher/student confrontation seemed to rise, spin, morph into more of a chemical tension, of men asserting their dominance with each other.  Of attraction.  Of the hunter and the hunted.

"You're not very scholarly, Dr. Watson."

"And you've been a right bastard tonight."

"I certainly hope you're not waiting for an apology."

"I certainly hope you're prepared for the consequences."  John could almost feel the emptiness of the threat, knowing that Sherlock truthfully didn't care much for class completion - he'd made that abundantly clear since the beginning - so he pressed a bit.  "What will happen to that job position you're seeking, hmm?"

There seemed to be a grudging acknowledgement of that point, although it was through nothing beyond a calculating look about Sherlock.  After a moment, he began, "If I let you," and Sherlock let his eyes and his hand airily gestured to indicate the desk that John had mentioned, "does that exempt me from this ridiculous assignment?"

"It does not."

"Then I'm not interested."

"That's a lie."  John felt positively predatory, having cornered his prey, his mouth watering literally and his skin radiating need.  It only took a brief assessment for him to note that Sherlock's skin was flushed, too.  "Would you like me to prove it to you?"  He dropped his gaze to Sherlock's crotch, and reflexively Sherlock shifted in the chair, crossed and then uncrossed his legs.  "Earlier you were downright impudent to me in front of a room full of your peers, disrespected me, yes mostly you made yourself look bad.  Demonstrated your immaturity."

"I don't care at all what this room full of idiots thinks of me."

"Do you care what I think?"  John's curiosity got the better of him, and even as he asked the question he knew he wasn't going to be especially pleased with the answer.

"Not about my academic performance, exactly," he said, cheekily.  "All I need from you is a passing grade."

"I dare say you want more from me than that now, don't you?"  John let the comment settle between them, his eyes taking in the small change in Sherlock's restlessness, the settling, less posturing and his becoming bit less agitated.  "And if you only need me for a passing grade, you should be more careful the manner you speak to me.  Your mouth gets you in a lot of trouble, doesn't it?"  

The visual connection was strong, charged, and vibrant.  John could almost feel the radiation between them.  And oh, how he _wanted_.  But first, he wanted - or needed - to break the will but not the spirit. _Onward, then.  But gently._

John stepped closer, taking Sherlock's arm with one hand over the taut bicep, the dress shirt smooth and rippling with corded muscle underneath John's hand.  He lifted his other hand to Sherlock's face, faintly brushed his thumb across the bow of Sherlock's upper lip, feeling Sherlock's exhale against the back of his fingers.  Only their breathing was audible for a few moments as they both became quite aware of the radiant heat of Sherlock's arm and face under John's touch.  "Using your mouth like that, being rude to people, is a terrible waste of your talents, I would imagine."  John leg was up against Sherlock's upper body, just the way they were positioned, one standing to the other seated, while John's thumb circled slowly, deliberately over Sherlock's lower lip.  "Shall we test my theory?" he asked, letting his thumb part Sherlock's lips, slide between.  Sherlock's tongue approached, testing, tasting, lips curling to allow John's thumb inside.  "Suck."  The faint whisper was more of a plea than an order.

Eyes drifting half-closed as his mouth parted, lips and teeth nibbled, while that clever tongue explored the pad and shape of John's thumb, John could only watch one of the most sensual sights he'd ever seen - that very expressive and tender mouth along a part of his body, moisture glistening and a breathy moan from Sherlock's throat as he moved.

"You know," John said, his shoulders thrown back as he admired the line of Sherlock's mouth, throat, the way he hummed from time to time, "that might be rather a waste of your talent, too."  There was an interested, hopeful expression on Sherlock's face when he pulled back, John's thumb coming out of his mouth with a deliberate pop, and he hesitated while looking up into John's face.  His mouth was still open just a bit, lips parted and softly swollen.  John let his fingers slide down the angle of Sherlock's jaw, knuckles grazing the stubble as he eased Sherlock's mouth closed.  "I can think of a better activity, can't you?"

There was a glimmer of nervous excitement, a bit of fear in Sherlock's pale eyes as he looked between John and then quickly in the direction of the open classroom door.

"Answer me."   _Break the will but not the spirit._

"I can, but..."

John smiled then, slipping his hand up into Sherlock's curls, massaging lightly and watching with pleasure how Sherlock tilted almost automatically into his touch.  "Smart man."  The grin broadened, and John could feel Sherlock's pulse accelerate, his breath shallowly catching.  "Can you think of something that would demonstrate some additional skills for me?  Something that started perhaps with you _on your knees_?"  Their eye contact was thrilling - the energy and tension and arousal.  

It was right here that John wanted him - uncertain, in that space between wanting to both comply and resist at the same time - to that moment right after he gave in.  He had no intention of carrying out any of what he'd been - alright, _blatantly and outrageously_ \- hinting at, but he was absolutely after the bending of Sherlock to his intent.  Of that sweet spot of surrender, of the power shift, of the _giving in_.

"Anyone could ..."  There was a hesitant glance at the door again.

"Maintenance campus-wide is getting ready for the end of semester science exhibits in the auditorium.  There will be no interruptions."  The warmth of John's fingers spread along Sherlock's jaw as he stared at his mouth, imagining and remembering and appreciating.  "I don't imagine you care one way or another, but I do actually have a moral code, and this isn't quite it, except that I turned in my resignation letter yesterday.  I'm obligated to finish teaching the rest of the class of course, but very shortly, I will no longer be your professor."

"You're right.  I don't care about that in the least."

There was a stand-off then, as John waited for Sherlock to recall and follow directions - _on your knees_ \- and while Sherlock debated his course of action. Their eyes met, blue on gray, darker on pale, with John very clearly in a position of authority - looking down, brow raised expectantly, amused and awaiting Sherlock's compliance.  It was a brief debate, and with a visible deep breath and a deliberate swallow, Sherlock eased himself off the chair, took a knee, and his arm began to reach for John's belt.  There was the slight tremor in his hand as he did, which spurred John's speech and coalesced his resolve, cementing the appropriate place to call a halt.  With a mildly hoarse quiet voice, he tucked in his body away from Sherlock's outstretched fingers, which he intercepted in his own hand, holding it in midair, letting his own fingers wrap around Sherlock's.  "That's enough.  Not tonight."

"The desk instead?"  Sherlock's voice was slightly higher pitched and less polished than usual, and John could tell he was nervous.  "God, make up your mind."

"I have, of course.  We're done here."  A firm hand under Sherlock's arm, and shortly he was on his feet, face flushed, speechless for the moment, mildly flustered.  John blew out a shaky breath.  "It's fine.  We won't be doing anything more, not tonight."

"This indecisiveness doesn't suit you, either."  Recovering, Sherlock squared off.  "In fact, it's rather annoying."

"Blame no one but yourself."

"This was all you."

"Your hand was shaking.  You were bloody nervous."  John could see Sherlock's fingers clench a few times and he put his hands in his pockets to keep them still, to hide any residual display of nerves.  John hid the smile.   "I might be a lot of things, but a _creep_ I am not."  Considering the safety of Sherlock's hands being tucked in his trouser pockets, John let his own fingers come back up to Sherlock's upper arm, sliding reassuringly from shoulder to ear.  Confidently, he drew them closer together, came a bit up on his toes as he pulled Sherlock's face toward his own, and was pleased when he could feel Sherlock's hands both settle lightly at John's waist and arm.  Their mouths met, warm breath and a much more leisurely-paced snog, much more relaxed and at ease now, their skin mixing a bit of razor stubble with just a hint of musky arousal, strong jawlines and the promise of more to come.  The kiss deepened, and John, paying attention, as soon as the temperature between them started to rise, John broke their hold.  "We should move on.  Grab your things.  If it's not too late for you, I know a great little place, and I'll take you to a late dinner."

Sherlock did exactly that, then turned to John with a questioning look.  "Aren't you...?" he began, gesturing at John's coat.

"No, thanks.  The fresh air will do me a world of good."  He couldn't stop the chuckle.  "You know, cool down a little."

"You had your chance."

"And so did you."  John's grin was that of conspiracy or victory, Sherlock wasn't sure.

"I don't think you would have."  Sherlock watched John throw his coat over his arm and slide his bag over a shoulder, then he grabbed John's cane before John could realise he'd left it leaning against the front of the classroom again.  When John held out his hand for it, Sherlock extended it away from John.  "You don't need it."

"Keep away is another childish behaviour."  John watched the life sparkling from every pore of Sherlock's being as he waited for John to make the next move.  "If I didn't know better, I would think you're asking for it, deliberately misbehaving ..."

"Of course he is, Dr. Watson."

Both of them, surprised, snapped to attention at the voice that sounded at the doorway. Sherlock was the first to speak.  "Oh for pity's sake.  Go away."  There was quite a bit of petulant body language from Sherlock as he quickly handed the cane to John, muttering, "Here.  Use this to beat him senseless."

John took in many things, the arrogance of the visitor, the obvious negative reaction of Sherlock's.  Taking the cane, he did not hurry to speak, simply watched the two men exchange glances before Sherlock looked away to stare across the room.  "You already know me, obviously," John said, more than a degree of cautiousness as he extended his hand out toward the stranger.  "And you are?"

The stranger's eyes flicked momentarily to John's hand, then returned to John's face.  "Concerned that you, Dr. Watson, are both over your head and _out of your league_ entirely."  The handshake was not returned, and John bristled in response to that, withdrawing his own hand.  The stranger seemed to look down his nose at John, finding him lacking.  There was a coolness to his icy gaze.

 _All right_ , John thought.   _Two can certainly play this game_.  "I see he gets his rudeness from his family ...  shall we say, perhaps, uncle?" and when the stranger's eyes narrowed unhappily, John continued, "Older brother, then apparently."  John was clearly fishing, not at all certain until he saw the blaze of something akin to being impressed at his guess, his statement.  "Your social skills are appalling."

"I could say the same to you, Captain.  The footage of your ambush of my brother from a hiding spot in an alley was really rather pitiful."  There was a riveting stare from the stranger to John and as much as John wanted to look down in embarrassment or guilt, he did not.  "It was really quite fortunate, for you, that nothing questionable transpired that evening."

"What do you want?" Sherlock groused impatiently from where he stood.  "Just bloody say it."

"I'm just concerned for your welfare.  Thought I would pop 'round to check up on you both."  His expression was pleasant enough, John thought, although there was a snide edge to him.  "You understand, of course, Dr. Watson, I wanted to take advantage of the chance to meet you.  To say hello to my brother and meet one of his more tolerant, if inexperienced, professors."  The way he emphatically slurred the word advantage, it was clear his mission was intimidation as he hinted at the impropriety of the relationship.

John quickly weighed a few options, decided that a more aggressive play was in order and likely more favourable.  "We were just going to go catch a bite of dinner.  I'd be chuffed if you would join us."

"No, we wouldn't," Sherlock interjected quickly, his tone irritated and without even an effort to be civil.  "You are most unwelcome."

Ignoring his brother, the stranger turned to John.  "Congratulations on your new job position.  I hear, however, that there may be some office reassignment, something about another practice having a more pressing vacancy.  It'd be such a pity if you were relocated somewhere far outside of London, would it not?  One of those less desirable locations."

"Dr. Watson is not impressed with your theatrics or your connections or your threats, Mycroft."

John didn't hesitate, interjecting, "Actually, I am rather impressed with your nerve and your meddlesome behaviours, though.  But if you aren't joining us for dinner, I do believe we need to be moving along now.  Ta."  John made sure to at least nod his head at the man before walking out the door, trusting that Sherlock would eventually follow him.  He waited a moment in the courtyard outside the building, ended up replacing his coat, and the brothers walked out of the building in silence, with Mycroft barely acknowledging John's presence and Sherlock shaking his head in annoyance as he approached, while they parted ways.

"Sorry."

John couldn't resist the opening.  "See, I knew you would apologise eventually."

"For my _brother_."  He was not amused, delivering the correction with a bit of a snarl.  "He hovers like an annoying gnat.  Thinks he's doing me a favour keeping tabs..."

"Should I be concerned?"  John gave a small chuckle, knowing that the job - the one that Sherlock's brother threatened - he'd obtained was likely not all that secure yet and that reassignment was not unheard of in the medical practice industry.  "Who is he exactly?"  John gestured with his head toward the street where they could walk a few blocks to a small restaurant he had in mind, and they ambled off with Sherlock glaring at John's cane as he answered the question about his brother.

"Mycroft?  Too big for his britches.  And a pain in my arse.  Ever since that time he had me committed to inpatient rehab," and Sherlock looked up wide eyed at John, apparently not having meant to disclose that information.

"I'm not surprised, it's okay."

"He lords it over me perpetually.  And he holds some sort of influence in MI-6 and finds himself rather of some import in the government."  There was a sourness about Sherlock's expression that made John imagine lemons.  "He's all about the dramatic and attention seeking and making me squirm."

"Good thing you don't have a penchant for the dramatic."

"I would never, and of course never, _ever_ in front of a classroom."

They exchanged good-natured grins, and John couldn't stop himself from shaking his head.  "God, you just might be the death of me."  John checked his mobile for the time.  "I know I mentioned dinner.  Are you interested?"

"I don't eat much.  It's rather pedestrian."

"If you ever want to get beyond where we are now, this flirting and hinting at where this might end, it's going to require a bit of effort on your part.  Which might include mundane chores such as eating or taking care of yourself."  John laughed at Sherlock's horrified face.  "By the way, are you _behaving_ yourself this week?"  John got the feeling Sherlock was trying not to sigh outlandishly.  "By that I mean, are you clean?" he clarified.

"Yes."  The answer was clipped.  "And I haven't forgotten that you mentioned a reward."

"I haven't forgotten, no, that's true.  It would be in exchange for a clean, official drug test."

Sherlock halted mid-step at John's words.  "If you're going to expect me to urinate into a container, I'm not doing that in front of you."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a bloke with a shy bladder."

"Assume nothing.  And a saliva kit should be fine."

"More expensive, less accurate."  John kept walking, and Sherlock was a half-step behind.

"Dr. Watson, I think it's fair to warn you -"

"God, stop it.  Between you and your brother, I think that's enough for one night."

" - that most people can't tolerate me for any length of time, and -"

"I think, given the circumstances, you can call me 'John' when we're not in class."

" - it's only a matter of time before I anger you enough that you -"

_"Sherlock."_

"What?"

John could only smile at the insecurity and the sweetness of the man keeping pace with him now.  "Shut up.  We're fine."  He took Sherlock by both upper arms, drew him close, sealed his lips over the taller man's, and let a kiss do the talking for a few moments.  "Taking it nice and slow."

When John moved to step back again, Sherlock was the one who clung, his face buried in John's neck, into the open collar of his jacket.  He inhaled a few times, and John tried to catch sight of his face to make sure he wasn't upset or some such.  The force of the way he was holding on to John was unexpected.

"What is it?  Is something wonky?" he asked quietly into Sherlock's hair.

"Not only does the timbre of your voice drive me crazy, reverberating into my chest, god, it's like magnetic.  Even stronger than before, bloody amazing, but you smell terrific."  To prove his point, he leaned in again, closer, inhaling like a hound scenting a fox.  "Hot, just a bit sweaty, all male, it's ..."

"Heaven help me," he muttered, pressing his lips fondly onto the side of Sherlock's head.

"Your scent is ... brilliant."  The shudder and groan about Sherlock's shoulders and body, there in John's arms, was guttural and sexy as hell, John considered, arms tightening a bit around him.  Without lifting his head, he added, "I'll bet your armpit is even better."

"Sherlock!"

"I have a highly developed olfactory nerve.  And as part of my reward, John, I would really like to bury my nose there for a few minutes."  The gravelly voice and the pleading was back as he left his face there, and John became aware that as they stood in such close proximity, that his neck was unexpectedly feeling a bit warm, a bit wet, then cool in a few spots.

"Stop that immediately," he said, pulling away.

"Why, it's just a bit of a taste."

"Perhaps," John said, picking up the pace a bit as they approached the door of where he was looking forward to putting a table between them.  "But," he said, disengaging completely, "I should never say this to you, but my neck?  Total erogenous zone."  There was a raised brow at the sudden spike of Sherlock's interest and John could tell he was immediately, fully hell-bent on getting back inside John's collar.  "Dear lord, I've just given you ammunition and I shouldn't have.  My neck, no.  Armpit, absolutely not.  Last night of class, we'll dismiss early.  Drug test.  And then you can have my neck or my armpit or almost anything else you want."

"What am I supposed to do between now and then?"

"First of all, decide what you want to eat."  Immediately, Sherlock's hungry glare turned toward John, his eyes and his smile and his posture giving away that he was set on devouring John.  "From the menu, you berk."  There was a fondness in the words, and John couldn't stop the grin.  They passed the sign that advised customers to seat themselves and John picked two menus from the stand pressing one into Sherlock's hands.  A small table off to the side seemed too small, but they were momentarily seated, still holding and ignoring the menus.  "The other thing you can do is concerning the paper you finished but didn't turn in."  When Sherlock began to frown, John thumped his hands quietly on the table.  "Oh do stop that.  You're not fooling me.  I know you have the paper done, and that it's probably going to have the highest grade in the class.  So turn it in now, right now, and let's get to know each other a bit, shall we?"

Intentionally, John began to look at the menu, knowing full well it would drive Sherlock nutters.  He heard a few huffing breaths, an irritated shift in the chair he was in, and a glance revealed that Sherlock was quite possibly sulking.

"Stop.  You're clever, don't doubt that for a second.  More clever than I, perhaps.  That doesn't mean, however, that I'm going to let you get away with things."  John leaned forward, letting his feet come around the outside of Sherlock's under the table.  "Heaven knows, after meeting your brother, I think there's been too many things you've gotten away with in the past.  It stops with me."  There was a pause as their ankles shifted, feet and shoes vying for space around the table leg too.  "So decide what you want, and turn in your paper.  Then I want to hear the tale of what made Sherlock Holmes hell-bent on resisting authority."

++

They stayed too late, conversation both lively and flowing energetically until the server finally hinted that they would be closing soon.  Their plates had been long cleared, so they gathered their things - John having slid Sherlock's paper into his bag - and hesitated outside the door of the restaurant.  

Sherlock asked the question he'd been mulling over since class had ended, a rather curious look on his face.  "Why the big set up tonight?  Why did you bother asking me to do something you weren't going to let me do anyway?"

John smiled, enigmatically, and let Sherlock read his expression first, then parried back a question of his own.  "Why bother to write the paper if you weren't going to turn it in?"  Worrying at his lip, Sherlock pondered that a moment, then nodded a bit before looking away.  John waited for Sherlock to raise an arm for a cab, and when Sherlock gestured to it, John shook his head no.  "I'm walking, it's that close.  But you head on home, behave yourself."  Sherlock was very close to complaining, fussing, and nearly refusing to get in, but John made a chucking noise in his throat that seemed to change his mind, climbed into the cab.  "Good choice.  Oh and Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" he said quietly from inside the car.  The use of his common name was smile-worthy, almost intimate in it's own way, and John smiled back.

"See you in class."

The cab was barely out of sight when John's mobile buzzed.   **Your cane is still in the restaurant.  And you still don't need it.**

John had just turned toward the door when the server was there holding the item out to him.

John's phone buzzed again.   **Take it, put it away.  See you in class.**

 ++

The final class of the semester, with all students in attendance and obviously relieved it was ending, seemed to drag on despite John having ended with a very well done video on the future of Biology.  The research that was currently being done was impressive - on the medical front as well as forensics and environmentally.  After the video ended, John handed out a brief survey to the class regarding their future plans and overall perceptions of the usefulness and effectiveness of their classroom experiences, and dismissed them.

Sherlock's final summary was sparsely filled out, in English, and turned in about mid-way through the other students.  He returned to his seat, then, waiting for the room to empty.  After the final student had left, John reached into his jacket pocket, removed the drug test kit.

Sherlock was not pleased.  "John."  Uncomfortable, he stayed right where he was at his desk.  "We talked about this."

"Yes, we did.  This should not be a surprise."

"I don't want to."

"Well aware.  Come on, let's get this over with."  Holding the box, John gestured toward the door.  "Gents is right down the hall."

"You're not coming with me."  The tone was almost whining.  "I can't."

"Sure you can."  Letting his arm sweep wide in the direction of the hallway, John continued.  "Let's go."  He could not stop the faintest twitch of the corner of his mouth as he said it.

"Ha. _Go._  You're hysterical."  Sherlock was stubbornly sitting stone-like in the chair.  "Fine.  But only because I am after my reward.  But you are not coming with me."

"That's not how it works."  John tried to be patient.  "Come on, then.  Coat off," he said.  "You're making a ridiculously unnecessary big deal about something you shouldn't worry about."

"Yes, kind of like you and your cane -"

"Which is not here."

Sherlock pressed on.  " - and your stupid paper.  And your moral code that's kept me at arms length."

"Sherlock."  When he didn't move, John took just a few steps toward him, and that seemed to spur him to action.  "Coat off.  And empty your pockets while you're at it."

"Right, because I definitely have a container of urine in my pockets."

"Trust me, I've seen it all."

On top of the Belstaff, Sherlock placed his mobile, a magnifying glass, his wallet, his oyster card, and a few coins.  "Happy now?"

"I expected you to empty out a twelve pack of condoms, truthfully."

"Yeah, well, the extra large ones had to go inside my coat pocket, and that's already off."  The attitude was positively nervous and blustery.

John grinned, unsure if he was teasing or not.  "Good to know.  Extra large, yeah?"

"Of course."

The hallway was almost empty, and the gents was unoccupied as John led the way into it.  There was awkward silence as Sherlock, face flushed from throat to hairline, approached.  John opened the box, removed the container, screwed off the lid, and handed the cup to him.  "Midstream."  There were two wall mounted urinals and two stalls, and when Sherlock looked around and hesitated, John added, "Wherever you'd like."

Sherlock huffed, stepped toward one of the stalls, and began muttering to himself about leaving the stall door open and his invasion of privacy and that this was one of the most ridiculous, humiliating things he'd ever had to do.  He was still muttering when John stepped noiselessly to the door and waited until he heard the first splash of urine in the toilet before completely leaving the room.

"You wanker," Sherlock said to him moments later in the hallway.  Irritated, he was drying his hands on a paper towel and his voice was seething between clenched teeth.  "Sample is on the sink."  He was sweating, embarrassed, and positively radiating energy.

"I'll meet you back in the classroom." John took a step toward the door, eased on a pair of nitrile gloves without making a big deal over the action.

"How long?"

"I'll be right behind you.  First test gets read in two minutes, and the whole thing is done in ten."

++

"I could have told you it was clean," Sherlock fussed at him.  John simply smiled.  "It was a waste of time and effort."  When John still said nothing, Sherlock continued.  "And a waste of money."

"And you were embarrassed."

"You only did it to be mean to me.  Because you're a power hungry, control freak."

"I did it to prove that I can be trusted to carry through on my word.  And you proved that you are trustworthy, too."  John paused at the gents again to bin the rubbish, then met Sherlock's eye as they stood facing each other in the hall.  "Now.  Your reward, presuming you're still interested?"

"God yes."

"Good.  I've got a surprise for you."

++

A quick tube ride and they were standing next to a cafe on Baker Street.  "Thought I'd show you to my new flat tonight.  Great landlady on premises.  Mostly furnished.  Central to my job and not far from the Met.  I was thinking perhaps you might be interested, provided that job works out for you."

"Maybe I'm not looking for a flatmate."

"And maybe you are.  I know your address, you realise.  This one is a much better location."  John produced a key, unlocked and opened the door, gestured up the steps.  "I saw it a few days ago, put a deposit on it, signed a one month, renewable lease.  Started moving in already, so take a look about, see what you think.  There are two bedrooms, in case that matters."

"It doesn't.  Though it's good to have options, I suppose."

Sherlock entered, glanced around briefly, shrugged.  "It's fine."

"Don't you want to ..."

"No."

"The upstairs ..."

"No."

"Are you always this reckless?"

"You've known me long enough to already know that answer."  He turned an eye on John.  "That was a idiotic question, when you think about it."

"Maybe it was a test.  Keep in mind, I also have access to your educational history.  I was only mildly surprised, with a little bit of digging, to find out that you already hold a doctorate in chemistry.  No wonder you were bored and looking for ways to liven it up."

"My brother, as well as my parents, are still a bit frightened when they perceive that I am bored.  You should take it under advisement before making a genuine offer to have me as a flatmate."

"I've already spoken to your brother.  And yes, he mentioned that you have been known to get into mischief."

"He took your call?  That in itself is surprising."

"I think he likely expected I was calling with bad news."  John flipped on the light, closed the door, shrugged out of his coat.  "He was actually relieved to hear I was only inquiring about your living situation.  And," John hesitated, "the number of bedrooms in the flat didn't actually come up in conversation."

"I'm sure he already knows."  Sherlock let his coat slide off his arms and land in a puddle behind him.  Reaching out, he took John's shirt in both hands, then pulled, fingers sliding to buttons.  John swatted at his hands, catching them and holding them still.  "John."

"I know.  You're after my neck."

"And your armpit.  You promised me."

"Patience."  He released Sherlock's hands.  "Hang up your damned coat first."

"What?"  Sherlock's voice raised a bit.  "You can't be serious."

"Of course I am.  We are not starting off this way.  You clean up after yourself."

"It's a coat.  Who cares?"

"You do recall I was in the military?  There will be some sort of order here."

Sherlock's eye narrowed.  "Did Mycroft warn you?"

"Not exactly.  He listened, then mostly just laughed, wished me good luck, and hung up."  He pointed at the floor.  "So, no, this is just us getting off on the right foot, off to a good start."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"It could be.  But I've already warned you that you won't be getting away with things with me.  Hang that up."  John waited, deathly still, while Sherlock paused under his consideration.  And then Sherlock picked up his coat and began to drape it over the back of a chair except that John was shaking his head.  "Hook, please."

With a cheeky smile, Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his coat, removed a strip of condoms, tucked them into his trouser pocket, and they both smiled at that.  There was tension in the air then, and Sherlock hung up his coat while John stepped quickly behind him, letting both hands wrap around his waist.  He began to slide higher, pressing lightly against Sherlock's ribs and muscled pectorals, hands insistent and warm.  A soft moan rumbled in Sherlock's chest, lodging quietly in his throat, and he leaned back toward John's body with his own.  "Do I get another reward for that?" he asked, quietly, his eyes closed as his head tipped back.

"For hanging up your coat?  No, that's an expectation.  Perhaps something can be arranged, however, for what's in your pocket?  Let's take this into the bedroom then, shall we?"

"God yes."

The sheets were cold but their bodies were warm as John pushed Sherlock onto the bed, fully clothed for the moment.  He brought his hands to his own shirt collar, began working buttons with the intent for Sherlock to have as much access to his neck as possible.  "God yes," John echoed Sherlock's earlier statement as Sherlock pressed his face into John, tasting skin and clavicle and up into John's ear, hairline, over his shoulder.  There was kissing and gentle suction and getting acquainted with the little areas that made John twitch or gasp slightly.  When the scar was revealed, mostly healed over to just a dark pink shiny patch, Sherlock stared.  "You can, if you want," John offered, and Sherlock bent low, inhaling and tasting, worshiping with his lips and tongue.  

"Easy, there.  Still fairly sensitive," John cautioned, and then after a moment or two, he rolled at them both, turning so that he ended up on top.  "Can I?" he asked, hesitating at Sherlock's clothing, then when Sherlock nodded, he freed buttons, belt, zipper, and slid down trousers and pants in one motion.

"Now you," Sherlock breathed, hands anxious and darting here and there on John's body, pressing and holding and touching, getting in the way while trying to assist in removal of clothing.  He sighed audibly when John was finally naked, letting his hand reach out to encircle John first, then them both.  "God, John, what do you want?  I can't reach the condoms from here."

"No, this," John breathed, uttering a plea and angling his body in order to align them both better in Sherlock's hand.  "Friction's good, this time.  God you feel..."

"Next time, I want..."  Sherlock's hand tightened, rubbing, his pelvis rocking up into John as John angled downward, their breaths warm and irregular.  "Next time," he said again, his mind focused only on his hand and their hardnesses touching, meeting, pressing, throbbing.  A sheen of sweat built, heart rates elevating, muscles tightening in preparation, and then in impending release.  Sherlock's heels dug into the mattress, his grip finally loosening just a little as his lower abdomen and back tightened, coiling tighter, tighter.  " _Ohgodohgodohgod_ ," came out all whispered and breathy as he then stilled, rock hard and tense, then found release between them.  The warm and wet covered his hand as he rocked up, thrusting a few times toward John, whose shuddering became more pronounced until he spasmed himself, breaths shaky and erratic as he joined him.

John managed to be aware when Sherlock's breathing seemed a little more laboured, with John laying overtop him, slid to the side, keeping him within the circle of his arms for the moment, unwilling to let go and break the connection.  "Better?" he asked quietly.

"Yes.  Sticky, though."

"I know.  I'll clean up in a minute."

"Before it gets cool."  Sherlock held out a hand, keeping it from touching anything else.

"Right."

"It's cool."

"Flannels in the bath across the hall.  Probably still in a box."

John closed his eyes as Sherlock launched himself from the bed in search of something to clean up with.  He could hear running water and the sound of fabric on skin, a few sounds of cloth being folded, and then the warm cloth was on his own belly, as Sherlock cleaned him off efficiently.  His eyes opened in time to see Sherlock drop the cloth on the floor, then look very quickly, guiltily even, at John to see if he noticed.  "I suppose you want that hung up too," Sherlock said after a moment as John continued watching.

"Probably a good thought, yes."  Smiling, John could hear water running in the loo, and shortly Sherlock was back.  Lifting the covers, John was glad he'd at least had time to make the bed as Sherlock slid back in next to him.  "God your feet are freezing," he said, catching them between his calves to attempt to warm them up.  

"Your hands aren't much better," Sherlock said, "but I actually don't care too much."  John relaxed his body a bit as Sherlock wriggled himself into exactly where he wanted to be, tucked on his side up against John, his head resting on the pillow he dragged partially over John's bicep.  John could only watch, intrigued and almost enamored, as Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, his nose centered directly over the small space in the vee between John's ribs and his upper arm.  He breathed deep, the look about his face approaching very pleasured, highly satisfied.  His mouth was slightly open, relaxed, and his arm across John's abdomen settled comfortably as he inhaled, muscles gradually easing into a contented and very natural position.

"You okay?" John asked, turning his head to press his lips against the side of Sherlock's curly head.

"Perfect."  A small grin appeared then as Sherlock's eyes closed all the way.  "This is _heaven."_

"If you say so."

"Trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if something slipped by me. (One day I would like to just write and post rather than write and edit to the point that many changes are required to make sense of the plot adjustments!) Please let me know if there is something unclear or - *gasp!* - a typo. (Unacceptable! Please tell me so I can fix it!)
> 
> I may do a few tweaks to the ending of this chapter, but the next one (last one) is demanding to be finished. A bit of fluff on the way and the fulfillment of a tumblr prompt provided I can get them sorted.


	5. Sweeten the Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of fluff to end with. Because I wanted to. And because John wanted to show off for all of you that he can do push-ups too. 
> 
> A tumblr suggestion gone wild. With great appreciation for the idea.

Bored toddler.

Bored toddler who had just eaten a bag of chocolates.

Bored toddler who had just eaten chocolates and drank an entire energy drink.

Bored toddler hyped up on chocolates, energy drink, and had just had eight hours of sleep.  Read that:  tons of restless vigor and ants in the pants.

With a _secret._

John sighed, rolling over toward Sherlock and growling, "Stop it, for chrissakes."  The duvet slid down, and John carried it with his hand to draw it over them both.  Tucking the corner up under Sherlock's chin, he pulled firmly against Sherlock's chest until he was pressed tight to John's front.  Quickly, he scissored his legs, catching both of Sherlock's and holding them still while at the same time anchoring the free, exploring arm with his own.  

It was like the out of control, overstimulated baby that calmed down when papoosed or swaddled, who needed a hint of being restrained.  They just needed a reminder and a bit of external assistance, a limitation of available options and a reminder of who was in charge:  Sherlock was remarkably similar.  He almost needed to be cuddled, even, John thought as he worked his limbs and body to keep Sherlock from getting out of hand.  John had provided that in the past, seen it work wonders, and kept his toddler observation - and successful intervention - to himself.  He needed, after all, a bit of an upper hand when dealing with his flatmate from time to time.  He had learned a lot in crisis management over the last months they'd been living together.

"Shhh.  Be still."  There was a quick flail from the man, wrenching in John's strong grip, trying to twist himself out of the restraining hold.  "Settle, you."  John could feel a few more seconds of the intent to escape, when it was replaced by a lull in the restlessness, an acquiescence of wills.  The trim shoulderblade in front of his mouth beckoned, and he kissed it, kissed it slowly, then _kissed it again_ , letting his lips worry at the skin, the faint freckle, the toned muscle finally pliant.  A big expansion of the ribs in front of him lifted his arm with inspiration, drifted down a bit with expiration, a sigh of (he hoped) cooperation.  Warmth from their collective body heat reached John's chin, nose, a combination of two people with a morning ahead of them, a relaxed beginning to a day with no pressing obligations.  The shoulder in front of him quivered then was unmoving, and the breathing pattern slow and even.

John didn't celebrate too quickly, knowing that Sherlock was a bit unpredictable still.  It was not unheard of that he would briefly settle until John let down his guard, and previous mornings he might have launched from the bed anyway, taking covers or otherwise adding something to their morning that would have prevented any chance at a lie-in.  Moments passed, and the light peeking in from behind the draperies seemed to get a bit darker.  Cloud cover, then, or ... _oh, yesssss._ He could hear a staccato beat just faintly, tapping slowly, a crescendo of sounds.

Rain beat against the window, a gentle patter of big drops initially, then a low rumble off in the distance, and John could feel his body drifting off again in the graying, fading light of a London morning shower.  His arms tightened imperceptibly, reveling in the intimacy of resting, legs entwined, listening to the weather outdoors, tucked away in their haven, sealing them inside their own cocoon.  A stormy morning when they had nothing on immediately was one of his absolute favourites.

Until Sherlock wriggled his bum back against John's groin, communicating tactilely with John's pelvis and awakening areas of John's anatomy that he would have preferred had also gone back to sleep.  There was a definite poking from in front of him, a throb and a twitch in response, an almost imperceptible tightening of bodies as awareness heightened.

The erection between John's legs got more interested, filling part way, lifting to prod Sherlock's lush arse.  John could feel the very moment when Sherlock grinned, wriggled again back into his lap.  He couldn't see the sleepy smile, but knew it was there just the same.

"Morning," came the gravelly voice in John's arms.

"It was."

"It still is.  You like morning sex."  Sherlock reached down, drew his arm along John's thigh, pressing even more firmly, pulling them close.

"You wear me out.  There will be no getting back to sleep."

"There could be, except that after, you always need the loo, and then you brush your teeth.  And you're addicted to your morning tea."

"Sherlock."

"You give up too quick.  A nice orgasm, and then just go back to sleep, John."  The directive was punctuated with another wriggle of Sherlock's bum, and John gave in with a not-at-all-reluctant sigh.  Definitely awake now, John breathed deep as he pulled them closer.  Sherlock could tell when John's mind also engaged in the at-hand urgency, and whispered low, "Oh, yes."

John's fingers slid inside his own waistband, pulling down sleep pants, kicking them out of the way with his foot.  Sherlock, who slept starkers, managed to keep enough distance not to make that any more of a challenging task, but once John was naked, his hand reached down between his own legs, pulling John's erection to slide thickly between their bodies.  Temperatures climbed a few degrees almost instantly, and John flexed his fully-healed shoulder to draw them nearer, reveling in the hot, sweatiness that was building.  It was reminiscent of the finer moments of Afghanistan's desert heat, or of a good aerobic workout, of the pore-cleansing exercise he still enjoyed.  John much preferred the warmer workouts to the cooler ones, the generation of all the body heat, and part of that also appealed to Sherlock.

Because John had a wonderful, woodsy, earthy, natural, appealing scent.  He was not averse to the smell of John ever, but particularly _after_ it was wonderful.  John no longer questioned the peculiarity that when he returned either from an exercise session at the gym or from one of his longer runs, that Sherlock would in all likelihood be waiting for him at the door.  It often ended in more sweating and then a mutual shower, and a very satisfied grin on both of their faces.  It just was, and John was largely okay with it all.

A bottle of lube appeared in John's vision, dangling from Sherlock's long fingers.  He'd long ago stopped wondering at all the times, conveniently, that appropriate products appeared - from between cushions, inside coat or trouser pockets, from John's medical bag, or even behind something in a kitchen cabinet.  A flip, a squeeze, and some body position adjustments and Sherlock was breathless again and giving a running litany of his impressions, "god yeah, just like that...  right there, yes, harder...  can you pinch right ...?" and John for the most part was focusing silently, carried willing and energetically along for the ride, holding back when he could, using his strong hands to manoeuver Sherlock right where he wanted for the best angle, for their mutual pleasures, for the final moments when Sherlock's words made no sense, and then, blissfully, for the minutes when they were catching their breath, skin cooling, sliding out, John wiping his hand on a flannel (provided conveniently again by Sherlock), and then resting a moment, eyes closed.  And then, predictably, sliding his feet out of bed to fulfill Sherlock's prophecy - loo, teeth, tea in that order.

All in all, John admitted, a very nice start to the day.  He had a lot, he knew, to look forward to, so actually an early morning romp in the sheets was a beautiful beginning.

Later, Sherlock would be accompanying him to a sponsored event required of his newest part time employment - that of NCO on the nearby army base.  He'd been brought on strictly as a civilian medical consultant to help with entrance physicals, to greet recruits, and to be present during some of their harder fitness exercises.  Today, however, was going to be a bit of a change.  A new batch of recruits would be coming, and most of the men - officers and NCO alike - would be participating in a training expo and fitness challenge on the base.  John's hand was too damaged and too numb to return to his duties as a surgeon, but he'd been exercising, training, working out, and bloody relentless in getting back into the shape he'd been in while deployed.  He was looking forward to proving that he had the endurance, strength, and stamina to keep up with the younger soldiers, the newly recruited athletes, and the full time guys he'd be in competition with later.

++

The five kilometer run up the hill in full gear, over trees and obstacles and rough terrain, had just ended.  "Oi, Watson, nicely done!" he heard, from his position, bent double, hands over his knees, catching his breath and feeling the sweat drip from his temple down his nose, dripping to the ground between his feet.  His cheeks were burning, flushed red with effort, coloured by vasodilation and exertion.

Quickly, a few deep cleansing breaths, and he stood up.  Though his chest was still heaving, he waited until he was fairly certain he could speak clearly, or so he hoped.  "Thanks, a good showing all around I think."  John glanced around, there were a few soldiers laying on their backs, exhausted, one actually throwing up off in the brush at the edge of the field, and a few breathing much harder than John was.  "No injuries, either, so far."  The obstacles had not been as challenging as the elevation had been.

A hand clapped his shoulder, and John turned to see the base CO had approached.  "Watson!"

"Sir."  John brushed a hand over his sweaty face, grinning, but being an NCO, did not salute.  They chatted a few minutes, and John could feel his heart rate normalise, settle, his breathing back to baseline. "Looks like a good batch of recruits."

The CO nodded, and they both paused while there was a PA announcement that the next event would begin in fifteen minutes.  "That's another one for you, yeah?"

John looked over in the direction he'd be heading next.  Push-ups, the most completed in five minutes while wearing a three-stone backpack.  Off to the side of where the group was milling about, Sherlock was already standing there waiting for him, as he'd both promised and threatened.  His throat was suddenly dry and he could not in good conscience blame it on the activity - it was the association, and what Sherlock had told him previously:  "Know this, _Professor_ , or should I say, _Dr. Watson_.  I'll be watching you do push-ups just like you watched me.  And your back had better be damned straight.  And I fully expect to be able to hear you count out loud."  John's wide-eyed stare almost was Sherlock's undoing, but he had the presence of mind to lean in close and add, "I look forward to watching you drop and give me twenty."

"Oh god, stop it," John had said, earnestly, pleading.

"Yeah, an erection makes that extra challenging.  You can trust me on that one."

There were a few men and women loosening up, stretching out arms, chests, biceps in preparation.  John sauntered over, casually standing near Sherlock, who greeted him and then asked, "Want some help loosening up?"

"Got it covered, thanks."

"So do you think you have a chance at winning this?"

Smiling broadly, John looked over at Sherlock.  "Perhaps.  Care to sweeten the deal if I win?"

"God yes."

"With?"

"I have a few ideas.  But will offer to start with carrying you up the steps to the flat after this.  I think you may need it."  Sherlock was watching a few of the other men preparing, some ripped, some leanly muscled, all of them fit and toned.  "He might be your competition."

John glanced over.  "I'll beat him."  John had watched the man Sherlock was indicating, one of the base's trainers, the man Sherlock pegged as a contender, and knew he would start too fast and lose momentum after a few minutes.

"Did you pay him off?"  At John's sharp look of disproval, Sherlock's eyes widened.  "Should I offer instead?  I would do it for you, you know."

"Good god, no.  Fair and square.  I'd rather lose with my integrity than win dishonestly."  John's tee shirt bunched up as he pressed hard into a few of the muscles he knew would be screaming in short order, hoping to loosen them, warming up, doing larger circles to make sure his muscle groups were pumping blood well.  His shoulder range of motion was not quite what it had been before his injury, but it was close.  He stifled a smirk as he watched Sherlock's admiring eyes take in the movements of John's arms and shoulders as he flexed, testing range of motion and making sure he was limber.  Sherlock looked nervously on as the organiser approached to gather the group.  "Wish me luck."  Backpacks were distributed and Sherlock tested the weight of it, looked dubiously at John and then at some of the others who were also fastening the pack on, adjusting straps.

Sherlock did not answer aloud, simply looked again at a few of the more obvious contenders, and winked at John as he turned away to take his place along the sidelines.

++

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked again as the cab drove away.

"I don't think you could carry me even if you wanted to.  And I definitely don't need carrying."

"I could drag you, perhaps, if the motivation was right."

"A gun-wielding criminal chasing us?"

"A plate of Mrs. Hudson's ginger nuts at the top."

"Good to know."

"I still don't think it was fair."

Incredulous, John halted mid-stride and his hand in mid-air over the doorknob.  "You do recall that I won.  The push-ups.  I _won_ that."

"Yes, but there was no prize.  No reward.  Nothing!"

"I disagree."  The door swung open, and John entered first.  "Satisfaction.  Personal accomplishment."

There was a pouty moue of Sherlock's lips as he stood just outside the threshold.  "Intangibles.  Pointless."

"Stop your complaining."  With a flair, John gestured toward the stairs as he waited for Sherlock to enter.  As Sherlock neared John, John could sense that the atmosphere was about to change, that sudden prickling awareness right before a change in the weather.  Sherlock paused, glanced at John's mouth, then lowered his head as if he were planning a kiss, then abruptly, he ducked further into the neck of John's tee shirt.  Inhaling slowly, John chuckled as he could hear a humm of resonating pleasure echoing through Sherlock's own throat.  "Stop that too."

Stubbornly, Sherlock did not comply, simply planted his feet where he was, enjoying the heady masculine scent of John.

"Seriously, I'm headed straight for the shower, so move it!"

He showed no sign of listening, and John's patience was wearing thin.  John let go of the door, dipped his shoulder into Sherlock's body.  The movement forced him backward, and deftly, John pulled at his body, turning quickly.  He wrapped Sherlock's arm around behind him to pull him across both shoulders, scooping and lifting him up so that his waist was draped over John's shoulder.  The soldier carry accomplished, John cleared his throat as he shifted Sherlock into balance around him.  With one arm holding the back of Sherlock's leg tight against him, he grabbed Sherlock's arm with that same hand, then stood full upright and used his free hand to steady himself on the railing as he began to ascend the stairs.  The heavy, slow sound on the steps apparently must have been novel enough to alert their landlady, who opened the door quickly to ask if they were all right.

John could feel behind his arm that Sherlock lifted his head to address her.  "We're fine, thanks."

"John?"  Her voice sounded unconvinced.

With a firm grip on the handrail, John paused long enough to answer also, "Fine."

"Be careful, you two."  She was obviously still watching, and queried again, "You're sure he's not hurt, John?"

"I'm not injured.  Not yet anyway."  Sherlock's near-evil sounding laugh was followed by equally mischievous words.  "I'm in very capable hands, Mrs. Hudson."  If John'd had a free hand, the raspy, sultry voice inflection that brought a gasp from their landlady would have earned him a quick swat or a pinch on the arse.

Low enough to only be heard by Sherlock, John growled in a whisper, "Behave!"

In return, John could feel Sherlock's whole body tense, alive and coiled with energy.  "Or else?"  His voice was also quiet there in the stairwell.

_"Sherlock."_

There was a muttering from Mrs. Hudson about not understanding young people these days that continued probably long after the door closed, leaving John and Sherlock midway up the stairs.

Sherlock's voice was a bit stressed, whether from his position across John's shoulders or arousal, John wasn't entirely sure.  He tapped John with his elbow, which was about the only thing he felt safe in moving.  "I strongly suggest continuing upward.  I have quite a few things planned that I want to do to you to reward you as promised, starting with your neck and my mouth, that are best suited for somewhere quite a bit less precarious."

++  fin  ++ 

 

 

 

The Army carry can go something like this:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three stone is forty-two pounds. I deliberately did not include the number of push-ups John did in five minutes, but there are some crazy records (with backpack)! One of them was the equivalent of 73 push-ups per minute, and there was even video to prove it.
> 
> The British Armed Forces does indeed use NCOs, but the rest of the military details are also intentionally sketchy. I apologise for the vague (and probably inaccurate) nature of the plot in that regard.
> 
> ++
> 
> Thanks for reading along. There was a lot more that could have been added to this little work, but I kind of liked where they ended - on the stairs of all places - and Sherlock misbehaving with John's neck. Good times await them in the flat, I assure you.
> 
> Please let me know (kindly) if I missed something.


End file.
